


and words are futile devices

by quietkids



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Canon Compliant, Character Study, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Post-Time Skip, atsumu centric yes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-21
Updated: 2020-06-21
Packaged: 2021-03-03 23:53:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24814129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quietkids/pseuds/quietkids
Summary: “I might love Hinata.” He breathes.Tokyo drifts in through his cracked window. A man, shouting.The night shudders, indigo blue.Atsumu notices a papercut on his right knuckle.When did that get there?Miya Atsumu is 23 when he says the words “I” and “love” and “Hinata” together.He is 23 when he collapses on his living room couch resignedly, his throat burning white-hot, and he is 23 when he takes his head in his hands and Sakusa Kiyoomi’s voice floats through the air like a fever dream. “It’s okay. It’ll be okay.”
Relationships: Hinata Shouyou/Miya Atsumu, Miya Atsumu & Sakusa Kiyoomi
Comments: 38
Kudos: 317





	and words are futile devices

**Author's Note:**

> i had a breakdown!!!!  
> read ocean vuong, reread giovanni's room for the 5th time, and listened to death cab for cutie at 3 am.  
> projected my entire life onto miya atsumu!! please enjoy.  
> (kudos/comments always appreciated!)

_You’re in a car with a beautiful boy,  
and you’re trying not to tell him that you love him, and you’re trying to  
choke down the feeling, and you’re trembling, but he reaches over and  
he touches you, like a prayer for which no words exist, and you feel your  
heart taking root in your body, like you’ve discovered something you  
don’t even have a name for._  
— ”You Are Jeff,” Richard Siken

————

Atsumu knows maybe three things on a good day. 

He knows that Tom Nook from Animal Crossing definitely has a personal vendetta against him, he knows that Osamu was definitely the one that broke their mom’s favorite porcelain dish when they were 9 no matter how much he denies it, and he knows how to play volleyball. 

Atsumu is an asshole but maybe he has some redeeming qualities. 

Atsumu carries lip balm everywhere ever since Kita pointed out that no one would want to kiss him if his lips were chapped. He carries a sashimi keychain that he got as a birthday present years ago and it’s followed him from middle school to Inarizaki and now to the MSBY Black Jackal locker room. 

Today is tryouts and that means a lot of hopeful newbies, which means Atsumu will have to deal with scared spikers and maybe a shanked ball or two. He runs his hand over his face and preemptively winces. Hold on. He has to practice his _I am so cool, that ball did not hurt at all despite the fact that you are six foot seven and are 180 pounds of pure muscle_ face. Or maybe his _I pinky promise I’m not that mean I just have really strong eyebrows let’s all get along_ face for the 4v4 games. He’s sitting with his knees hugged to his chest in front of the biggest mirror they have in the team locker room. He furrows his brows in mock concentration. 

“Hey!”  
Bokuto’s voice, loud as ever on a Saturday morning, floats from outside the door into the depths of their absurdly large locker room, breaking Atsumu’s thoughtful (narcissism-induced) reverie.  
Atsumu pulls himself up off the floor and goes to bully Bokuto in the way only he bullies people.

“Bokuto, do you ever shut the fuck up?”

Bokuto, undeterred (Atsumu’s asshole face is off today because he didn’t have enough time to practice), bounds at him with his arms wide open.  
Atsumu knows better than to dodge Bokuto Koutaro, because he’ll find _some_ way to fit a hug in every day, and his hugs are kind of nice anyway.

“‘Tsum-tsum! Are we ready for tryout day?” 

Bokuto doesn’t wait for his answer. “Look who’s here!” 

Bokuto spins around so fast Atsumu thinks it’s a miracle his spine is made of bones and not strawberry jello. He follows Bokuto’s pointed finger. 

He’s talking to their coach.  
A mop of orange hair. A tan that a British schoolgirl would be jealous of.  
A broad back and even broader shoulder. Atsumu thanks whatever God there is in Brazil.  
He stares as Hinata Shoyo turns around to the sound of Bokuto’s laugh. 

He breaks into a smile and waves.

“Atsumu-san!”

The sea breeze. The sky, glowing cotton candy pink.  
The silent drip of summer humidity. Shadows, marbled purple.  
The snow in Hyogo. It piles faster than it melts, the cold, cerulean blue, rattling. 

“Shoyo-kun.”

—————

Atsumu is 16 when he first meets Hinata Shoyo. 

When Atsumu is 16 he bleaches his hair every 2 months with 2 boxes of Manic Panic.  
He has self-esteem flowing out of his butthole.  
He plays volleyball and admires Kita Shinsuke from afar and races Osamu to the shower and never fucking wins. 

He doesn’t know what love is because anyone who thinks they know what love is at 16 is delusional and thinks John Green is the pinnacle of literature. 

Still, he stares across the net and points his finger.  
15 year old Hinata Shoyo, dizzy with elation and exhaustion, cocks his head to one side in confusion.

_I’m gonna set to you one of these days._

Osamu kicks his ass as they go to line up.

“Loser’s last ditch effort to sound cool, huh.” 

“Shut up.” 

Hinata Shoyo is electric and the light floods Atsumu’s bones.  
It brings him to his knees, almost in prayer, but Atsumu doesn’t believe in God. 

————---

Atsumu is 13 when Osamu gets his first girlfriend.

Atsumu knows this is supposed to make him jealous.

He brings her over on Friday afternoons and he shuts the door behind them. 

Their laughter drifts and fills the house and Atsumu wonders if he should feel lonelier. 

Osamu kisses his girlfriend before he says goodnight to her. 

It doesn’t last, anyway. Because they’re 13 and she didn’t like Shikamaru from Naruto as much as Osamu thinks she should have. 

They’re sitting at their dining room table after practice.

“She’s probably the only girl you’re ever gonna get.” Atsumu drawls.  
“Maybe you should try to be a little less of an asshole.” 

Osamu glares at him.  
He takes the last popsicle out of the freezer.

“She didn’t like Shikamaru.” As if this is the Answer.

He opens the wrapper.

Atsumu jumps to his feet.

“Wait a minute, where the fuck do you think you’re going—” 

Osamu runs. 

————---

They all go out after the roster is announced.  
Hinata makes it on the team, to no one’s surprise.  
It’s Bokuto’s idea. 

They land at a small restaurant 20 minutes from their gym by train.  
They’re entirely too large for seven of them to be seated at one table.  
They are all grown men who eat protein powder for fun.

But Shugo Meian is a gentleman, and after he sees the flush on the face of the singular hostess, he insists that they’re all doing just fine. 

It is not fine. 

Atsumu’s knees brush up against Shoyo’s. 

Bokuto, in his perennial cheerfulness, shot glass in one hand and pulling Hinata closer into a hug with the other. Bokuto ruffles Hinata’s hair and looks at him the way a parent picking up their pre-schooler looks at their mosaic made out of dried beans. 

Atsumu smiles at Hinata. 

“So, what’d you do in Brazil?” 

Hinata smiles back, measuredly. He has dimples. The amber liquid in his glass sloshes back and forth, the ice cubes clinking. 

“What do you want to hear?”

Hinata is different than Atsumu remembers, but it’s not like he’s known him long enough to say anything like that in the first place.

“Anything.” 

Atsumu feels heat, gentle, pressing against his shins.

He swallows. 

“Everything.” 

—————

Atsumu stumbles into Hinata’s apartment after the conversation dwindles and everyone remembers Bokuto’s a lightweight and Shugo calls a taxi. 

Atsumu remembers Hinata’s smile across the table. 

_Let me take you home._

Hinata lives three blocks away from the last stop on the green line.  
The neighborhood isn’t the nicest but there’s a small park at the end of the road and Atsumu can see him on his morning run, waving to the old lady next door.

Hinata pulls him over the threshold of his apartment.  
Atsumu can only make out the vague outlines of Shoyo’s house. A bookshelf, volleyballs piled in the corner, a sliding door and a clothesline. It looks out onto a busy street. The 24/7 convenience store glows. 

Hinata pulls him over the threshold.  
Atsumu’s breath hitches, and he notices that he is trembling. 

Atsumu is infuriatingly gentle for how much of an asshole he is, really.  
He kisses Shoyo with delicate concentration, tongue into teeth.  
Cups his hand around the back of Shoyo’s neck and pulls him in, the other hand, searching, meandering. Shoyo is sinew and muscle and blood and he is beautiful.

Atsumu has spent a lifetime studying tenderness but he has never held it in his hands until now.

It is too late for Atsumu to pull away. 

It’s almost summer.  
The leaves of the plants on Shoyo’s balcony rustle, almost as if they are listening. 

He finds himself being pulled down onto Shoyo’s bed, the hardwood creaking.

They pull apart. 

Atsumu studies the rise and fall of his chest.

Hinata stares. 

He touches Atsumu’s lip with his finger. 

“So.”

”Hm?” 

Hinata’s finger drags down to the ridge of Atsumu’s jaw, to the pit of his neck.

 _He’s so beautiful._

Hinata smiles. 

“How did you know?”

Atsumu rolls over and kisses him again.

—————

Miya Atsumu is 13 years old when he sees two boys holding hands on the train. He watches one of their index fingers _taptaptap_ and he watches a thumb trace knuckles. 

Love language. 

The sunlight in the train car is gentle, undulating. 

He spends his next volleyball practice tracing collarbones, trailing the flex of thighs, he lands on the nape of his captain’s neck. 

He kisses a boy at training camp the next summer. He doesn’t even remember his name.  
It was in a classroom while everyone was at lunch. The chalk dust floats through the air.

It was a fine first kiss, he guesses.  
I mean, it’s not like you can have another one. 

Another ghost of a high school memory. 

Life goes on.

—————

They’ve fallen into a rhythm over the past couple of months. 

Atsumu goes to Hinata’s place more often than Hinata goes to his because something about it is inexplicably homely. 

Maybe it’s that Hinata hangs up pictures on the wall and actually remembers to water his plants. Or maybe it’s that Hinata has a rice cooker that he actually knows how to use. 

They fall asleep together most nights. When Atsumu can’t sleep, he turns and stares at the curve of Hinata’s spine, and the gentle power of his back. 

He learns that Hinata uses citrus shampoo and lavender body wash.

He learns all these little things and he wants to keep learning.  
Trying to make up for 7 years he’s lost. 

Atsumu’s life is kind of nice, he guesses.

————— 

Atsumu is trying to be nicer.

Hinata’s in the shower after practice and Atsumu tries to boil water. He thinks he’s going to make soba. 

Atsumu forgets about the pot of water and burns the pot.

Hinata gets out of the shower and sees Miya Atsumu resignedly scrubbing the bottom of his pot. 

Hinata laughs and Atsumu grumbles.

“Shut up.”

“You can’t boil water.”

Atsumu looks almost pitiful, his sleeves rolled up, elbows leaned on the sink counter, hands buried under suds. Shoyo wants to kiss him.  
Atsumu looks at the pot in disdain. 

“I didn’t know metal could burn.” He’s pouting now.  
He also was not very good at high school chemistry. (Thank God for volleyball).  
He goes back to scrubbing.

“It’s just a pot.” 

The pot does look kind of burned past the point of no return.

Atsumu’s frown deepens at this. He turns off the tap in defeat.

He turns to look at Shoyo instead, who is not a burned pot that once held water.

“Oops.” Atsumu smiles sheepishly.

Hinata is wearing black shorts and a white T-shirt. 

When he reaches up Atsumu can see his navel.

“C’mon, let’s go to the convenience store.” 

Hinata grabs Atsumu’s soap-sud-covered hand and pulls him closer. 

He takes his head in both of his hands and kisses him on the forehead. 

“You’re kind of stupid,” Hinata says. He pulls away and flicks Atsumu’s forehead.

“But it’s kind of cute.” He says it as an afterthought.

Atsumu smiles and lets himself be dragged to the corner store with the nice old lady and individual purunto pouches. 

Atsumu watches Hinata’s brow furrowed in concentration, standing in front of the store’s freezer section. 

His hair is still wet from the morning. The convenience store has a singular window.  
It’s almost fall, but the summer morning still burns lazily, illuminating.

Shoyo has nice cheekbones and a nice nose and nice freckles. 

Atsumu’s throat feels dry. 

Atsumu thinks he loves Hinata Shoyo. 

—————

He can’t sleep that night, partly because of the heat and partly because he took a four hour nap after morning practice. His apartment only has a shitty ceiling fan despite the fact he’s a pro athlete and makes an absurd amount of money, too much to have a shitty ceiling fan.

His thoughts drift in and out and they land on him, his finger pointed at a confused, sweaty 15 year old on the opposite side of the court, he remembers how the words left his mouth, “ _I’m going to toss to you one day._ ” He has been waiting, wondering, burning, or seven years. And now? 

He plays with the way the words feel in his throat and dance on the tip of his tongue. 

_I love you.  
I love you.  
I / love / you. _

He imagines them wavering in the air, as if they were physical things he could hold and touch and carry. He wants to scoop them up and lock them away in his chest and let them fester and rot, the way all living things do. 

Miya Atsumu is 23 and he realizes, with stunning clarity, one day he’s going to marry a man. 

He’s going to marry a man and he’s going to buy a house by the ocean and he’s going to live in it with his husband. They’re going to get crappy souvenir mugs and tacky fridge magnets and they’re going to argue about the validity of interior design. He’s going to bike to 7-11 on Sunday mornings and buy a shitty sandwich and a can of iced coffee in the discount section and he’s going to leave the other half on the counter for his nameless, faceless husband. 

He has always known this, but for some reason, he _realizes_ this, now.

His chest tightens and he scrambles for his phone, his fingers lingering over the home button before he realizes he doesn’t have anyone to tell this to. 

He closes his eyes and tries to think, he tries to think of curves and softness and comes up blank, the current of his thoughts drifting toward power, and sturdiness and the ripple of musculature, he thinks of how power, in the right hands, lends itself to tenderness. 

He thinks of all these things and he cries, softly, even though no one is there to listen. 

——- 

Atsumu shows up to practice the next day and he knows he looks like shit.

No one mentions it, but they all awkwardly skirt around it instead, because no one knows what to say. Or whether they should say anything, really. Who knows. 

Miya Atsumu is dramatic and whiny and clingy and arrogant but he is none of those things today. 

He hits a jump serve way out of bounds. And then during the next rotation he hammers it straight down, and it bounces back up into the back of Thomas’ head. 

Thomas, being the 6’ 7” angel that he is, doesn’t even ask for an ice pack, just tells Atsumu that he’s buying him 10 bottles of peach soju the next time they go out. Atsumu agrees. 

He still sets Hinata, though. He sets Hinata and every ball is graceful and every ball meets Hinata’s palm like thunder to lightning. He can sense Hinata looking at him quizzically.  
Today Atsumu tries to avoid the pull of Hinata’s eyes— golden brown. Flecks of green. A sunspot obscured by his eyelashes. 

Atsumu is many things but he has never thought of himself as a coward until today.

Hinata doesn’t question it. 

Atsumu doesn’t change after practice and ignores the disgruntled look the middle-aged woman (a lawyer, maybe) gives him as she shuffles past him on the train platform. 

He does not go to Hinata Shoyo’s house. 

Maybe he’ll stop by the supermarket with the black cat that he can pet and pick up a pack of instant curry since he’s running low and a bottle of Tylenol and a bottle of green tea.  
He’ll watch Kitchen Nightmares tonight, probably.  
Fuck. His head hurts. 

He unceremoniously trips over his doorstep trying to get into his own fucking house.  
He collapses on his couch and closes his eyes for five minutes before he realizes he didn’t lock the door. 

He squints angrily up at his ugly beige ceiling and then decides that it would be okay if he got murdered. Then he would be on an episode of Criminal Minds and maybe Osamu would give a stirring eulogy or something like that. 

He almost smiles.

Atsumu rolls over and smashes his face into his couch pillow.  
He is trying very hard not to think of anything. 

He hears a solid, singular knock at his front door.  
Atsumu can tell it’s Sakusa because no one else knocks just once and waits. 

_Jesus fucking Christ._

He closes his eyes and pretends that maybe if he’s quiet enough he’ll blend in with his navy blue couch and Sakusa will change his mind and go away, even though that’s never happened before. 

“You know, I can see you,” 

“Shut the fuck up, Omi-kun.”  
Atsumu sits up, resignedly, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

Sakusa pushes the door and steps over the mantle, careful as ever.  
He’s holding a plastic bag from the corner store. He sits down next to Atsumu on the couch.

“I didn’t shower.” 

Atsumu hopes this will be enough to make Sakusa cry.

“Ok.” Instead, Sakusa looks unentertained.  
He reaches into the bag and pulls out a singular umeboshi onigiri and hands it to Atsumu. 

Atsumu holds it limply in his hand, looking thoroughly unconvinced. He stares at Sakusa. Sakusa stares back. 

“Eat the damn riceball, Atsumu.” 

He unwraps it the way a white person would because he’s unique. 

A piece of seaweed flutters down onto his hardwood floor. He will sweep it up later, maybe. Or maybe he will let the oil sink into the floor, a present for the next person to occupy his one-bedroom apartment. He’s leaving his mark on the world. 

Sakusa sits on his sofa in silence, his eyes wandering around Atsumu’s living room.  
He smells like jasmine and Atsumu wordlessly thanks him for his candor.

Sakusa breaks the silence.

“So.” 

“Can we watch Kitchen Nightmares?” Sakusa wrinkles his nose. 

Atsumu smirks, because he knows nothing in the world would displease Sakusa more than watching Kitchen Nightmares.  
Atsumu can’t wait for Gordon Ramsey to open the walk-in freezer.

“You’re disgusting.” But Sakusa nevertheless obliges.  
This is how Miya Atsumu talks. 

They watch Kitchen Nightmares until Sakusa looks like he’s about to pass out. Atsumu gets up and turns off the TV, because he’s the kindest person in the world. He turns to look at Sakusa tinged green behind the curls falling over his face. Atsumu feels kind of bad.

“You should probably head home soon.” 

Atsumu pauses for a moment. 

“Thank you.”

“I live ten minutes away, asshole.” 

Sakusa continues to sit on Atsumu’s couch, legs crossed neatly under him. He sits like he is waiting for something to happen. 

Atsumu barely passed high school literature. He cannot read subtext. He does not know what Sakusa wants. He sits back down on the couch.

Sakusa gazes at him, expectantly.

Atsumu stares back. He drops his eyes. He fiddles with the hem of his shorts.

“Osamu has a girlfriend.” 

Sakusa hums.

“I don’t.” Atsumu pauses at this. 

He continues.

“I really like Hinata.” 

He stares at the piece of seaweed on the floor.

_I might even love him._

Sakusa continues to stare, unimpressed. 

“I think I might-” Atsumu frowns. His chest constricts. 

He tries again. 

“I might-”

Sakusa begins to stand up.

“Hold on-” Atsumu says, almost indignantly. 

Sakusa sits back down. 

“I might love Hinata.” He breathes. 

Tokyo drifts in through his cracked window. A man, shouting.  
The night shudders, indigo blue.  
Atsumu notices a papercut on his right knuckle. 

_When did that get there?_

Miya Atsumu is 23 when he says the words “I” and “love” and “Hinata” together.  
He is 23 when he collapses on his living room couch resignedly, his throat burning white-hot, and he is 23 when he takes his head in his hands and Sakusa Kiyoomi’s voice, monotone as ever, floats through the air like a fever dream.

“It’s okay. It’ll be okay.” 

————— 

His father loves his mother very much and Atsumu knows he is one of the lucky ones because of this. He remembers being 13 and sitting at the dinner table on a Saturday night, his father’s cheeks stained red from sake. He points his finger at him and Osamu and kisses their mother on the forehead. 

“I can’t wait for my boys to find a woman like this.” 

Osamu smiles crookedly. 

Atsumu rips off one of his cuticles and watches the blood rush up to fill the gap. 

——————

The team goes on a trip to Okinawa. 

It’s been a week since he watched Kitchen Nightmares with Sakusa and Sakusa, in return, uproots Atsumu’s entire life. 

Atsumu sits next to Shoyo on the train there and they haven’t really spoken since Atsumu accidentally assassinated Thomas during practice. 

Hinata still smiles when he asks whether the seat is taken.

“So chivalrous, Atsumu-san.”

“Well, you know me.” 

Shoyo falls asleep easily to the gentle rocking of the train and whispered conversation.  
Atsumu tries his best not to stare.  
Shoyo’s head rolls over and rests on Atsumu’s shoulder. He tries not to breathe for the next hour. 

Hinata stirs awake maybe an hour later. 

Atsumu’s Black Jackals bag is dumped haphazardly at their feet. 

“I like your keychain, Atsumu-san.”

“Hm?” 

“The sashimi. It’s cute.” 

———————

When Atsumu says it, it’ll be a confession.  
To the boy he met when he was 16, the one who flooded the emptiness of his ribcage with light, the one across the flimsy barrier of the volleyball net, and to the 13 year old boy, the one who only watched, the one he never really got a chance to know. 

_Thank you for waiting for me,_ he thinks. 

They go to the beach right before dusk. 

Hinata and Bokuto race to the water. Bokuto almost forgets to take off his pants. 

Atsumu would race them too, but he hangs back. 

The sand is Hinata’s second home, so he watches. 

Atsumu stares at the ground and watches the sand granules trickle over his feet.

He looks back up and sees Hinata and Bokuto struggling to pick up Shugo Meian, their dignified captain, “Iron Wall” Shugo Meian, and throw him into the water. 

The waning light makes Hinata look even more beautiful, he thinks.  
Dusk is syrupy sweet and sticky. 

Hinata feels Atsumu staring because everyone knows when Miya Atsumu is staring at you. 

He looks up and waves, and gestures him to come closer.

Atsumu knows as soon as he gets in arms reach Meian will ambush him and all three of them will hoist him up into the air like how ants carry crumbs in children’s picture books, but Atsumu breaks into a run anyway. 

He gets thrown in the water.

He almost drowns. 

When he swims up to the surface, he’s greeted by Hinata Shoyo’s smile. 

The words float, unburdened, buoyed by bright orange hair and a homesickness that Atsumu has never really understood until now. 

A lifetime of learning and unlearning. 

_I love you._

He wants to scream it from the top of the Tokyo Skytree. 

_I love you._

Shoyou grabs his hand, smiling almost apologetically, but Atsumu knows better. The sun deepens the crevices of his dimples.

_I love you too._

The sea breeze dances in Atsumu’s ears. 

The silent drip of summer humidity. Shadows, edges waning.

The snow in Hyogo.  
It piles faster than it melts; the cold, cerulean blue, thawing.

**Author's Note:**

> hi!! if u've made it here thank you. so fucking much.  
> i've never written for haikyu!! or just fic in general besides one chapter of a poorly conceived JeanMarco soulmate reincarnation AU when i was literally eleven. so. i hope you enjoyed nevertheless  
> i realized 3 days ago that understanding loving someone is a very different thing than kissing someone. or at least in terms of the oh wow im gay factor i suppose.  
> title is from futile devices by sufjan stevens. love sufjan  
> [twitter](https://twitter.com/atskta) \+ [cc](https://curiouscat.qa/osakis)


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